


death wish

by wintercourse



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck, some blood and implied violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 19:10:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6532759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercourse/pseuds/wintercourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>“If you were hoping to whisk me away from my tower, brave knight, I consider climbing the fire escape cheating.”</em></p><p> </p><p>It's one o clock in the morning when a criminal climbs to Terezi Pyrope's window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death wish

**Author's Note:**

> another cross post from tumblr, another lazy lower case fic. original [here](http://ghostpressure.tumblr.com/post/127557648036/vriskaterezi-71-kinda-late-but-i-really-like)

it might be one o clock in the morning, which means it might be monday, or it might be tuesday. it might still be raining, and the burnt out streetlight outside your shithole building might have flickered back on. it might be streaking the mist orange, sparkling off the damp slabs of concrete piled high against the chainlink fence where you once snagged your hair and had to rip it out. you haven’t opened the blinds in a while, so you aren’t sure. you haven’t opened your eyes in a while.

there is definitely someone on your fire escape.

you hear a clanging noise, clumsy feet on metal, and it’s underpinned with distant sirens - you can hear the distance closing. your brain works itself into overdrive, you can almost feel the steam pouring out of your ears as it fabricates a million vivid images of what happens next - you’re stabbed, you’re shot, you’re robbed at gunpoint and they realise you’re blind and can’t help them, you say the wrong thing and you’re stabbed, you’re shot, endless loop.

you shake your head, roll your glass eyes, feel around for your cane, and haul yourself out of bed for the first time all day. (it might have been two days - it might be tuesday).

you gingerly pick your way over the trash littering your room, and curse quietly when a can you kick skitters across the bare floors. you make enough noise getting to the window that you just give up and knock.

the clanging stops.

you give your best grin, all teeth all the time, try to look like you aren’t blind but in fact super dangerous and intimidating. you know you can be both, but potential home invaders would likely disagree. you open the window, and desperately hope you aren’t talking to thin air.

“if you were hoping to whisk me away from my tower, brave knight, i consider climbing the fire escape cheating.”

your heart thuds, but you keep smiling, not sure whether you want a reply.

“jesus shitting christ.”

the voice is scratchy, and breathy, and maybe feminine.

you feel your face twist in that way, the way everyone tells you looks a bit like a question mark (before you huff and raise your fingers to your lips and say _it sure doesn’t feel like one_ \- but you’re starting to think the expression just slips before you can reach it).

you wait patiently for a real answer (or a rapid abscond), eyebrow raised, tossing up the pros and cons of a lecture on proper wooing technique. _you might still be in the shit here pyrope, that’s probably not smart_ -

you hear them shift suddenly, and you grip your cane, trying to figure which way they turned. but the metal vibrates through and through, sways slightly until you don’t know where the sound comes from, but you can’t give yourself away, not like this, and it’s now or never, left or right, take your pick - you whip your head to the right.

a low whistle sounds from the left.

“well i’ll be damned.”

you bare your teeth in the direction of the whistle.

“you will be.”

you hear a slight rustle, like she (you think?) is shaking her head, hair whipping around it.

“no no no, ok, hear me out. i’m not here to hurt you. i’m not gonna rob a blind chick, sheesh.”

“then why the hell are you here?”

there’s a pause, before she replies lightly.

“no reason.”

you scoff, telling her you’re calling the police before going to shut the window.

“no, wait! please. i’m not - i’m in a bad way.”

her voice wavers slightly, like she can’t bear to reveal a weakness - the admission is bitter enough that you almost believe it’s genuine.

“so what, you want my help? why should i trust a word you’re saying right now?”

you hear her exhale roughly, and the air on your face stills slightly, like she’s shifted closer to you and blocked the chill night breeze.

“i’ll prove it. just give me your hand.”

you think on it for all of a second before deciding you don’t have a death wish tonight - but she mutters the smallest _please_ and something slithers in your gut. she’s still on the other side of the window, and you carefully extend your arm.

she paws at your palm for a moment before her fingers close on your wrist - not as firm a grip as you were expecting, the fluttering nervousness contradicting her brash voice and tough callouses. she guides your hand further, slightly higher than your shoulder, until your outspread fingertips brush on something rough. you probe the surface. something like canvas, but with more loose threads. you feel parallel edges, about four fingers apart, but none perpendicular - the cloth extending around a familiar shape, layering over itself.

you feel something wet beneath, and realise you’re stroking at bandages.

the edge of your mouth tics down as you follow the curve of what you guess is her shoulder, palm flat against it. you brush over, down, expecting for a moment to follow her arm all the way to a knife at your throat. but the vertical plane rises, falls, meets softer fabric and you don’t feel her arm, but the bump bump bump of her ribcage. you breathe out softly.

“yeah,” and you whisper it, feeling a sudden hushed reverence, “that’s a pretty bad way.”

-

as she clambers through the window frame, you tell her she should go to the hospital. as you lead her into your living room/bedroom/kitchen and sit her on your couch, you tell her she should go to the hospital. as you feel clumsily around your medicine cabinet, looking for fresh bandages, you call over your shoulder that she should most _definitely_ go to the hospital. she eventually replies that she already has.

“i didn’t - i didn’t lose it out here. i got fucked up pretty bad, they had to chop the whole thing off. forgive me if i don’t want to run straight back to those fucking butchers.”

you find the bandages and walk back, perching yourself on the far edge of the couch.

“when exactly did this happen? and what exactly happened?”

“a few days ago? maybe a week, i don’t know. listen can you maybe turn a light on or something? i feel like i’m the one who’s about to land prime time on the true crime channel.”

you blink, caught off guard, and resolve to grill her on true crime later. right now, though, you realise you aren’t even sure where your light switches are.  
you get up again and start running your hands along the doorframe. she must make out your fumbling through the gloom, because after thirty seconds she calls out, “i think it’s on your left.”

you find the switch, and assume it was the right one when you hear her satisfied hum. you sit yourself back down.

“listen, you can’t distract me that easily. you just so happen to be talking to a master interrorgator, so you might as well answer my questions!”

“in _terror_ gator?”

you grin, glad she picked up your emphasis. you hear her huff again.

“fine. i got in a wreck, pretty bad i guess. woke up, sans arm, and high tailed it out of there as soon as possible,” here you hear the wince in her voice, “guess i busted the wound open on the way out.”

you don’t necessarily believe her story - you’re unsure that it’s the whole story, in any case - but you let it slide. there’s a few moments of silence before you reach for the roll of bandages.

“well, whether you’re going back to the hospital or not,” she softly mutters _not_ and you hold up your index finger to shush her, “we should probably replace your bandages.”

“yeah, whatever. hey, are you sure you can, um. do that?”

“pretty sure, yeah.”

you raise your eyebrows at her, and the rustle of the couch tells you she’s drawing her limbs back in embarrassment.

you reach over, and she clumsily helps you unwrap the gauze. by the last layer, your hands are slick, and you raise them to your face to catch a whiff of the metallic scent. she makes a choked off noise.

“come on, don’t be such a baby! i want to sit and contemplate my blood soaked hands as much as the next criminal accomplice. how am i supposed to channel my inner macbeth if you’re going to be so squeamish about everything?”

“it’s my blood, jackass, and you’re practically licking it off your hands! anyway, i told you, i’m not a fucking criminal.”

“sure you aren’t. only a fine upstanding citizen would run away from the hospital, and turn up bloodied and pained to terrorize a poor, defenseless blind girl!”

she snorts.

“defenseless. right.”

“shut up. listen, i’m gonna wash my hands and then come back. just keep the used bandages pressed against it till i get back, ok?”

you feel her neck tense, release, like she’s nodding, and you leave her.

you come back and work in silence.

smoothing down the last of her bandages, you decide it’s the perfect time to introduce yourself to the suspected violent criminal on your couch.

“my name’s terezi, by the way.”

her shoulder locks up, and you tut at her.

“you lose your manners in that crash too? speak up long con.”

“vriska,” she finally mutters, and you pin down the gauze. vriska.

“nice to meet you vriska. now that we’re properly acquainted, you have to let me touch your face.”

she groans loudly, like she’d rather be scaling buildings one handed than sitting on your nice comfortable couch and dealing with your conversational niceties. she grabs your wrist and guides it to her face anyway.

her grip is firmer, now, but not harsh. you’d say the same of her face, when you finally reach her skin - the severe slope of her nose leads into a surprisingly soft brow. high cheekbones, square jaw meeting pointed chin. you reach up to the roots of her hair, and they’re fried and knotted, some strands wrapped in the stitches on her forehead. she’s a mess, but you can’t stop yourself from thinking she makes a very handsome mess.

your hands slide down her neck.

“are you done feeling me up yet?”

you swallow, and smile.

-

“what’s your plan anyway? were you just looking to crash with a stranger for the night before stealing away into the morning?”

she’s propped up against your tiny bathtub, watching you rinse the blood out of her shirt.

“something like that. i’ve got a friend who i think can help, maybe patch me up, give me a place to stay.”

“because you hate hospitals.” your deadpan does not phase her.

“exactly!”

“so why did you need to break in here?”

her bare feet squeak on the tiles. she’s pressed against your legs in the cramped room, and you feel her shrug.

“he’s on the other side of town, wasn’t sure i could make it how i was. listen. you don’t mind right? like i get that i’m a handful right now -”

“it’s fine,” you say it sharply, and soften the next word. you scrub harder into her t shirt to compensate.

“honestly, i’m almost glad for the company. don’t get out so much these days.”

“i’d be happy to stay the night. you know,” a wicked smirk creeps into her voice, “for company.”

“you can stay,” you wring out the shirt over her head, ignoring her protesting squawk, “until your shirt dries. come on, i’ll get the air mattress.”

-

“ok, here’s how it is.” you imagine her face, the way you felt it before, with confusion already marring her features. you’re lying in the dark, and you think that may even the playing field.

“you tell me what’s going on. what you’ve gotten yourself into, what really happened, why you ran from the hospital. no bullshit.”

“…and?”

you suck in a breath, let it out with a smile.

“ _and_ , i’ll give you a freebie back. one question, complete honesty.”

the silence stretches, and you can almost hear her brain working. you’re about to break into a _going once, going twice_ when she finally speaks up.

“what happened to your eyes? i get if you were born like that or whatever, but that picture hanging in the front has your signature on it. so.”

you decide to run the short version.

“fireworks. little ones, in the park. they don’t seem so little up close, i’ll tell you that much!”

you grin, or grimace, you’re not sure which.

“i was thirteen, and i used to draw. your turn.”

she takes a moment to respond. she doesn’t tell you she’s sorry, and you’re glad.

“ok. yeah, so i got myself in some trouble.”

you raise an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate.

“there’s just - there’s this guy. real creepy dude! got a lot of sway out here though.” she pauses, and barks a short laugh.

“let’s just say there’s a reason i don’t like doctors.”

you swear you feel the air turn to ice around you.

“i crossed him one too many times i guess. can’t help it, gotta look out for number one you know? guess he was doing the same, but he had a six wheeler in his corner. and i was in a fucking prius, can you even believe that? trying to do my bit for the environment, no joke! last time i try to do something right by humanity.”

she snorts, and you’d call bullshit on the prius but you don’t feel sufficiently motivated. you can’t picture a face for the man, and the image of a blank-faced driver, sheer white, is already searing into your brain.

“woke up five digits short and nursing a hell of a headache, worst hangover of my life basically. look over and i’m handcuffed to the bedframe - guess someone put in a good word for me, huh?”

you start to regret this deal.

“vriska -”

“nearly broke my only thumb trying to get out of there. was a week before i managed to pick the lock, and then i just ran like hell. i think there was time before that though, before i woke up. not sure how long. hadn’t exactly been keeping up with the date beforehand - should never have stopped marking my ‘days still alive’ calendar!”

you reach down, dangling your arm off the couch to her place on the floor. gently feel her face again. when you find the corner of her smirk, you assume it’s bitter. her jaw works against your thumb.

“i’m guessing it wasn’t too hard to find a lead on the bloody one armed girl running around downtown, cause i heard an awful lot of sirens a few blocks back.”

you pull your hand back, listen to yourself breathe for a minute. her voice had raised as she kept talking, but you keep yours at a whisper.

“i heard them too. doesn’t mean they’ll find us.”

she thinks she’s quiet, clearly, but she’s not used to your keen hearing (you know she’d understand though, understand making up for what you lack.)

she thinks you won’t hear when she softly echoes, _us_ , on the back of a sigh. her breathing evens out eventually, and you take her limp hand in yours.

-

the sun streams soft through your newly opened blinds, and you feel the morning breeze from the window you never closed. she pours herself a bowl of cereal and doesn’t look twice at the unwashed dishes piled taller than either of you. she’s been grilling you all morning, maybe hoping to know as much about you as you now know about her. you tell her you’re a student.

“oh yeah? what’s your major?”

“criminal law.”

she’s quiet for a split second, before she starts laughing. it’s ugly, choking for breath, and it’s gorgeous. you laugh with her.

**Author's Note:**

> this is old now so i can cringe @ past me for that 'everybody laughs' ending


End file.
